The Bull Pen
by aliencatt
Summary: Newly released from solitary, Miguel Alvarez finds that he has attracted some unwanted attention. SLASH...F.A.O.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a fan.

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RATING **FAO** ...**m/m, non con, Read at your own risk**. So if you don't like please don't read.

**set in the third series**

Another of my older stories, never before posted. Hope you enjoy.

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The bullpen. The same sterile lighting, the same tables, the same factions manoeuvring around each other. The looks, leers, stares and signals. Old rivalries and vendettas. New alliances and schemes. And the same smells. Disinfectant, windowcleaner, stale bodies and breath mixing with soap, deodorant and the discordant touch of perfume. But oh! ... the scents of other people.

The differing taints all seemed like fresh air to him. Not being trapped in a room where the only smells are your own body, your own unwashed clothes, bedding. Your own existence.

On entering Em City after so long in solitary, Miguel Alvarez hand a pang of homesickness. A sickness at the thought of being home. This home, back in Em City. Pain in his head caused him to nearly stumble but he caught himself before any sign of weakness could be seen and noted. This was the kind of home where you could never relax, never feel safe and warm.

But there was a welcome.

Glancing to his left, he saw it in their eyes, El Cid and Guerra. A welcome worse than in his nightmares. That is, his nightmares up until these last few months. Eyes! Oh God! The eyes! Coming from all directions, curious, cunning, manipulative, glazed, tired, dead.

His head, he had to get away from the pain in his head. Had to put on a bold face, persona, but all he wanted to do was sink to the floor, small, insignificant... overlooked...Alone.

After months in solitary, with no one to talk to for days on end, only Mukado and Hacks for what seemed like seconds, with no faces except for those in his head, he just wanted to be left alone! Not back in a small room. But space. Alone.

Not knowing quite how, he moved to an empty chair in the back of the TV crowd and began to build up his own walls, his own space. Slouching, trying to appear at ease, he used his own eyes to warn all others to keep their distance.

Surveying the room, between watching Miss Sally's latest foray into puppet love, he felt the eyes begin to lose interest. There was always plenty else in the air to keep the wary's attention. That just left him with El Cid and Co, sat hunched and plotting off to his right and an unknown face to the left, narrow, pale and with a beard.

Alvarez wore a sneer and stared him out, but the stranger just continued to lean against the pillar staring right back, eyes callculating, assessing.

"What the fuck d'you want?"

The man just shrugged and raised his hands in denial. He appeared to come to a decision and, with a slight smile, turned away and headed for the showers.

What the hell was that all about? Miguel Alvarez's head began to pound.

==000==

After leaving Sister Pete's office, Miguel couldn't stop the images of Rivera. Yes, he'd asked to see the photos. Yes, it had worked as he'd hoped. Now he remembered, could remember what he had done to the man's eyes, but he hadn't expected to react like this. Sure, it would be bad, he deserved it. But, oh!...He wasn't prepared for this.

The corridor was mercifully deserted. Collapsing against the wall, kneading his temples with the heals of his hands, he was beginning to slid down the wall when he heard the footsteps. Shit. He'd blurred his vision. Panic set in. "Alvarez! You supposed to be somewhere, an' it ain't here!" A Hack, Murphy. "Get going."

He had to be more careful. He couldn't afford to be taken unawares so easily. The cost? His life. And after what he'd done, he couldn't trust that the Hacks would keep their hands off him either. They hadn't in solitary. He needed to think, to plan. He needed to deal with El Cid finally, once and for all. He needed allies.

Heading back towards Em City, he began to go through his options. O'Riely? Had worked with him before. Who owed him? Well, that list was short. Passing through the gates and looking around. The Nazi fucks on one side, the Muslims on the other. Well they were both out of the question. Abedesi taunting Kenny and the homeboys. A mincing half done transsexual surrounded by Queens. The Italians who wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire.

Nada. Nothing.

His eyes fell on Beecher limping towards his pod. Too wrapped up in his on off, are they or aren't they waltz with Keller. So already occupied. But then again, could he get them to tango into his problems? Keller was strong and could be extremely dangerous, just ask Beecher. By the time he reached the top of the stairs by his own pod, his head had begun to spin.

Falling onto the railing as if meaning to, he leant forwards and gazed around the pen. He knew instantly he was being watched and a couple of seconds was all it took to locate the source. That new face again. Russian or something other European. Could that be the answer? He'd not been here long enough to have history in this place so maybe they could start some? No. Not a good bet, an unknown quantity.

Besides, that look he was giving him, he could feel it all over him, as if he was not just looking past his clothes but right into him. So best he not be approached but Alvarez needed to know about him if only to get a clear idea of what his interest was.

Yeah right. He'd already got a good idea. He'd been here way long enough but had always managed to keep his arse out of that kind of trouble and, to Alvarez, it would be trouble. Not interested. No way. Hadn't he seen him with Rebadow earlier? And that old con had a rep for always knowing what was going on way before anyone else.

Decision made, he sauntered back down to take a seat across from the old man who for once had lost his shadow, Brusmalis. Now he didn't know how to broach the subject, especially faced with the wondering expression turned to him, after all he'd barely ever spoken to the man. "Erm?" Oh, good start.

"Yes?" inquired Rebadow placidly.

Leaning forwards on folded arms, he tried again. "That man? Russian?"

"What Nikoli?"

Slight gesture with head and eyes, "Beard, leaning on a pillar, blue tracksuit." What was with that outfit? The quick glance told he was still being observed. "Keeps watchin' me."

"Yes. Nikoli Petrovich Stanislavski."

"What do'u know?"

Rebadow leant back in his chair, hands relaxed on the table. "He's Russian. A Jew and done for trying to sell stolen diamonds—to a cop!" supplied Brusmalis far too loudly for Alvarez whilst sitting down next to his pod mate.

Oh Fuck! So much for being circumspect. He looked over at the Russian and met an amused expression. They stared at each other for a few seconds, which to Miguel seemed long enough to be stripped down to his skeleton. Turning back to Bob Rebadow, he was about to speak and realised yet more had joined the table. Beecher and Keller stood beside him. Fuck! He was loosing his wits bad. How had they managed to arrive without his knowing it?

Scraping the chair back, he rushed, head down, to his pod to pace around, grabbing at his hair then threw himself onto the bunk. Fuck! Shit!

"I thought he wanted to know?" said Brusmalis surprised.

"Know what?" Keller asked as he occupied the vacated chair. Occupied being apt as he sprawled there, legs spread, left arm hooked over the back, right hand brushing down Beecher's thigh, being slapped away as he sat.

"About our Nikoli."

As one, they turned to look over at him. The man under discussion pushed himself from the pillar, arms still folded, looking off to Alvarez's pod, then turned to his audience, that slight smile on his lips and headed towards them.

"Me thinks he's taken a liking to our little Latino and it's made our hombre nervous."

"Keller, you judging everyone by your own balls?"

Answering, he leaned in, hand back on Beecher's thigh, "You know where my balls lead."

"Take, it, away!"

Keller began to squeeze. Beecher stood and left, passing Nikoli, missing the gleam in Keller's eyes but knowing it would be there.

"Hello, my friends," smiled Nikoli.

==000==

Days had gone by yet all he had managed to do was circle around people and get beaten by Cramer in that dumb boxing match. How the hell that could have happened was a mystery. His head had become fuzzy, had felt fogged which was so different to the stark images that continued to invade his mind like one of those wrecking balls on a demolition site, even through the pills Dr Nathan had him on. Sometimes he felt his mind was under assault and the attacker was his own psyche.

But staying out of solitary, the hospital, the morgue, was an achievement in and of itself. Since the match, his few attempts to the clearer O'Riely brother had been met with arrogance and contempt, but Ryan had not dismissed him entirely. So, maybe.

This week's session with Sister Pete had not helped. It had just added weight to the wreaking ball. He'd become such a regular shadow of his former self lately that the Hacks had been sending him back to Em City alone, as if they couldn't be bothered with him.

The dull concrete corridor was always cool and empty with nothing but a couple of locked storage rooms so he could afford to relax slightly. This unobserved walk had given him the chance to compose himself and paste on the combat ready persona he needed before facing the other inmates. He walked slowly, preparing himself, pushing to the back of his mind the thoughts and images that talking, or more usually, listening to the nun had stirred up.

He was jerked backwards by cloth pulled over his face. Losing his balance, his feet were kicked from under him and left arm crushed to his side as someone else's was fastened around his torso. Shouting as loud as he could, kicking out, the fabric tightened over his face, cutting in under the chin, causing him to fight for breath. Hell! He was fighting for his life. Fuck. Shit. This was it. All over. He was going to die now. Any second the shank would sink in.

Over the roaring in his head, he hard a sharp, "Legs, get his legs," and felt himself being lifted and carried backwards. So there were at least two of them. He continued to struggle but why hadn't they killed him already? "The door," the man who controlled him from behind commanded. His legs were dropped and he struggled harder, fighting for breath. Off balance, the cloth loosened slightly as the attacker fought to keep him restrained. A breath, yelled, the closest thing he had ever made to a scream. "Shut him the fuck up!" voice a little further away.

It sounded familiar but not a Latino accent. So they weren't El Cid or his cronies. Then who the fuck were they and why? A renewed, tighter pulling on the cloth dragged him backwards into presumably one of the storage rooms. He had to go with it or be strangled. Other hands on him as he was heaved onto something hard and jarring. A piller? A strutt? Not a wall as his hands were forced behind it and tied.

He began to buck once more and received a shove to the forehead, knocking his skull back against the pillar. Pain breaking through the blood roaring around his ears. "Don't. It's useless if he's out cold. He must be able to feel it all."

Oh God, they were going to torture him first? Then kill him? What the fuck was going on? Who were they? That voice had sounded strange but he couldn't work it out. No time now. Just pure torror. He kicked out and caught something. "Fuck!" the familiar voice swore viscously and his ankles were then also tied to the column, firmly but not cutting in. More cloth then, but it held as he continued to fight.

The fabric over his face was whipped away but he could see nothing. His vision was blurred and it was dark with only a little light seeping in around and under the door which appeared as a foggy haze. A blindfold then covered his eyes and was secured at the back of his head, knotted where he had hit it. He hissed out a breath at the pain and amazingly it was repositioned.

What the fuck was happening? What sort of torturers were concerned at his pain? He drew breath to yell once more. A hand covered his mouth. A whispered voice by his ear, "Shush. Stop fighting. It does you no good!"

Again the discordant note struck as if whoever was speaking was trying to sound different, covering up something but what? An accent? A distinctive well known voice?

"Quel...?W..who are you? What do you want?" Still fighting the bonds, his voice gained strength, "Untie me, you fuckin' bastards!"

A slight chuckle by his left ear. A grunted laugh from further away. Another whisper, the breath warm on his cheek. "First would be telling. Second you are soon to discover and the third? That will not be happening for a little while."

So they planned to let him go? Or would it just be to fall dead to the floor? "Fuckin let me loose!" he screamed out as he fought afresh with his whole body to pull his hands free.

A stinging slap to his face followed by a soothing blown breath and a fingertip caress. "Que..?" he began as the fingers continued to his mouth. Just one followed the outline of his lips. He couldn't get a handle on this. Again, what the hell was going on? He'd expected to be dead by now. The finger dipped inside his mouth, ran along the inside of the lower lip, was removed and replaced by a tongue along the top.

He was beginning to admit that he knew when the other spoke from some yards away, sounding extremely bored, "Just fuck im already will ya?"

No, sweet heaven. They were going to rape him! No! No, oh fuckshitno!

He began to buck wildly, pulling at whatever bound his wrists and ankles only to have his head pulled back and to the side by his hair, a body pressed against him. He couldn't allow this to happen. Never had. Keep fighting. Furiously he struggled between the pillar and body, both unmoveable and static until he realised through his movements he could feel the man's cock and it was getting hard, pushing into his own. He went rigid.

Fighting was getting him no where and the bastard was enjoying it! Would pleading work? He was willing to beg what was left of his soul away if it could get him out of this. "Por favor. Please, no," quietly to the man holding him. "I'll give you money. Everythin' I got. I can get you tits, dust? Anything you want?" He almost sobbed, "Just please, don't do this to me." The man moved back slightly but remained touching at the groins. Was it working? "Anything you want."

A hand brushed down the extended side of his neck to rest against his left shoulder. The other, holding his hair, began to massage rather than pull. A soft kiss to the jawline just below his left ear. "But why? When I can take what I want now?"

Miguel sagged, letting out a low tortured moan. What could he do? He couldn't fight anymore and obviously couldn't talk or bargin his way out. An approving, "Good," was practically purred into his ear followed by another gentle but longer kiss in the same place. "Do not fret. I do not intend to hurt you. Unless you want me to?" the last on a higher note, asking the question.

But he didn't want. He didn't want any of this. And could he really believe that he would not be harmed? Except from getting his arse raided against his will? Which, he figured, was becoming inevitable. He risked asking, "Are you really gonna let me live?" He was disgusted at how plaintive he sounded. A chuckle in response, it was infuriating.

"But of course. How else will we be able to continue to enjoy each other?"

Relief flooded through Alvarez. Somehow he knew he was being told the truth. Followed by resignation. If he just let it happen, not that he appeared to have any choice, it would be over soon and he could get out of here. But did this man really believe he could make him enjoy this? Conceited prick.

A new spark of rebellion flooded through him. Then panicked relisation. Continue to enjoy each other? Continue? This was to happen again? No way. Get out of here. Find the bastards and deal out pain of his own. 'Grande' pain.

All this went through his mind, planning, scheming, to be brought crashing back to the present as his hair was released and the hand moved to his shoulder then mirrored the actions of the other as his would be, soon to be? rapist stepped back and began to slide hands down to Miguel's narrow waist then to settle on his hips. If only he could see the bastard maybe he could gauge what was to come.

Who the fuck was it? He needed to look him in the eye. 'Get this blindfold off me,' he begged silently. He couldn't stand not being able to see. Fuck. He began to visibly shake. Oh, God. What had he done? How could he have done that? Deliberately and viscously blinded someone? And Rivera had done nothing!

Again he was brought back to the here and now, with a momentary feeling of relief quickly squashed. Hands moved inside his t-shirt, palms on his skin, moving upwards, brushing over nipples to shoulders once more, clothing brought up on bent wrists. Quickly the bunched shirt was forced over his head, constricting his arms even more and leaving his torso exposed.

The hands began to explore, pressing firmly on flesh. Every inch on show was prodded in examination, his chest, his sides, down to the band of his still too big jeans. His well-defined abs were each pressed, massaged and outlined. Firm hands and gentle fingertips intermittently. Back up, massaging towards neck and shoulders then once more down to pause and gently pull at nipples.

A sob he couldn't contain escaped his lips to earn a gentle kiss on his lower one and firmer handling. A pinch, a tug then gentle circling with thumbs on his, he was ashamed to admit, firm and erect nipples. A hand grasped the back of his head while the other palm pressed a path down the centre of his body over navel and on, under the band of his jeans and underwear. As his belly was massaged firmly, the tips of the fingers brushed the top of his prick.

Alvarez let out a gasp and a mouth clamped to his own in a bruising kiss. Desperation renewed the fight in him only to be met with increased pressure on his neck and belly. 'I'll bite his fuckin tongue off! If I survive this I'll hunt you down and kill you, you fuckin' bastard'. But the tongue only played with the inside of his lips, the corner of his mouth, never giving an opportunity for mutilation. This man was not stupid.

In his pants, the middle finger began to stroke across the top of his dick, the others digging in on either side. Abruptly a shift and the hands were back on his hips then plunged down onto his butt, grasping hard. One found the shank, which had been digging in ever since he'd been pushed against the spar.

An arm around his back pulled him savagely forwards, groin slamming into groin as the shank was removed carefully. A tutting noise followed by a ping at it hit the floor a few feet away as it was casually dropped. Again hands pushed down onto his cheeks, the waistband of the pants digging in tightly just above his cock. A whisper by his ear, "Very nice. But a little skinny for my taste. You must eat more, Michael."

The angry voice was back in his head. As if it was his fault the Hacks had starved him. This bastard couldn't even get his damn name right. " Fuck you." A kiss, a nip at the same spot on his jaw.

"Maybe, one day, when you have earned it."

Miguel pulled back his head and spat at where he thought the face was. The hands gripped and pulled hard once more, slamming their bodies together, straining the bindings around his feet. "Missed!"

A laugh from yards away. Alvarez' head snapped in that direction. Shit he'd completely forgotten about the other man. "Get on with it. Times' passin'."

Shit, did he want to do Alvarez too? No, no please, way too much. A hiss like an animal marking his territory was issued in return. Another laugh and either reading Miguel's mind or reassuring the other of his prey, "Hey, you know my dick leads in another direction."

Attention back on Alvarez, he was lowered back down to stand. The hands resumed a pummelling massage. A hard cock was rubbing against his own, stirring one. A groan, even his own body was betraying him. How could he begin to get turned on in these circumstances? Yet it had been so long since he had been touched even remotely like this. Such a long time since he had received anything but beatings, shankings and scars or his own ministrations. His mind reeled that his body could, and was, responding to this attack.

Another shift and he was released to stand panting. His chest, his whole frame moving to accommodate the desperate breaths he was taking, trying to control his panic, not only at what was being done to him, but at his own bodies reactions. Lips kissing again, along his jaw, mouth and neck, constantly moving, always gentle as if trying to seduce a virgin. But to this he was, but he didn't think much to the restraints approach. The kisses light, licking. A beard.

This man had a beard. Remember that. Help track him down. The voice, fake, covering something up. Remember that. His jeans and underpants were swiftly pulled down. He forgot everything as his cock was licked from root to tip, then a warm enclosure around the head.

He jerked backwards, once more hitting his head hard enough to be momentary dazed. Then all he knew were the sensations on his prick. Licking, light and fast, up then back down his entire length. The head surrounded by lips, hands digging in over the protruding hipbones. It continued fast then agonisingly slow, the same movements, same lightness of touch.

Alvarez felt himself tempted to scream out, 'harder,' but stopped just in time. He shouldn't want this. Why was he responding, becoming semi-erect? He fought his body, fought against the sensation. He found he was moving his hips forwards against the pressure of the hands holding them, towards that mouth while letting out small gasps and moans. When had he begun to moan in pleasure? His mind was in turmoil. His body beginning to win out.

"Time," spoke from a mile away. "Got to go."

The mouth left him, the hands swiftly removed. His mind whimpered, "No." That chuckle again. My God, had he said it out load? A hand holding the base of his skull, the other, that same place on the jawline. A second punishing kiss and, as a tongue thrust in to fuck his mouth, all thoughts of biting it were forgotten. That hard cock was crushing, dry humping against him. He tentively began to respond with his own tongue then nothing, all contact gone. He strained forwards. All he found was a laughing, "Next time, my Michael."

In the time it took to think 'Que? What? When?', his feet were loosened and his hands untied then he was violently pushed to the floor. Reeling, he scrabbled to get the blindfold off. He needed to see who had done this to him. Who was it that had taken him from terror to feelings he couldn't come to terms with. The eye binding off, he found that it was damp. He hadn't known that he'd cried. Rubbing at his eyes, he was just in time to see the door closing. They'd been fast.

He pushed himself to a sitting position. His arms, giving out under him, it took a couple of attempts. He was shaking uncontrollably with pains shooting up and down his limbs. It took a minute to get the shaking under control and then he untangled the fastenings from his feet. It came away easily. If they had not been loosened, his ankles would probably be broken by now. The cold floor felt soothing to his abused butt and he relished the coolness as he began to replace his clothes.

Standing, dressed but none too steadily, his eyes caught a glint on the floor. His shank. He bent to retrieve it as the door handle was rattled and a surprised, "What the..?" from a Hack as it swung open.

In no time at all, Miguel Alvarez was stripped once more and landed heavily against a filthy wall as he was thrown unceremoniously into 'The Hole'.

==000==

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Hours had gone by or so it felt and Alvarez was still desperately trying not to think. Sat in the middle of the floor, knees drawn up with an arm on top, he kept lifting and dropping his head to elbow, his right hand picking at the floor. 'Ciento veinticuatro, ciento veinticinco, ciento veinticseis', he had responded, 'ciento veintis'….. Oh fuck it.

He gave up. His mind kept returning to that storage room. Counting didn't help, planning revenge hadn't helped. This was something he was going to have to figure out. Head rolling on now folded arms, he focused on what he knew.

There had been two of them and they must be from Em City to have managed to get into that storage room. Anyone from Gen Pop wouldn't have had a chance. Still, neither should these two. It had been planned and timed well. For them anyway. So, two prisoners from Em City. One who wanted Alvarez and one just along for the ride. A favour? Paying a debt? Or just liked to see someone get their arse done over?

Yet that hadn't happened. Whoever he was, he seemed to want Alvarez, not just the chance of a quick fuck, wanted or not. Well, Miguel did not want. His stomach turned over. He roared, getting to his feet and began pacing around the room. To the door, change direction, back to the door, change direction, interlocked hands pulling his head down. Around the room, turn go around again.

He'd never been tempted to have sex with another prisoner. So many turned to other inmates just due to lack of female contact. Some took by force. You could ask Beecher about that. Some called it love. You could ask him about that too. Not that you'd likely get an answer.

But he'd always managed to avoid the first. That is until now and couldn't imagine the second. So why had his body betrayed him? He'd been forcibly taken, convinced he would die. Then it had seemed he was to be taken in some sort of bondage fetish episode. But no, that hadn't happened either. Instead he'd been turned on.

Miguel headed into a corner, arms folded defensively across his waist. He felt sick. He pushed into the corner, rubbing his face hard into the filthy wall then sliding down, tight into a ball. He wanted to hide. In a room with nothing but a rusty bucket and patches of every bodily fluid imaginable, he still felt vulnerable. He supposed that that was the idea of throwing you naked into a cold disgusting room but that wasn't the reason. No. He already knew he couldn't trust anyone in this place. Now, he couldn't even trust his own body.

His mind he hadn't really trusted for a while now but this was a new betrayal.

He had been grabbed, tied and assaulted. He touched the back of his head. It was still painful from being smacked into that pillar. His arms were stiff and ached, his wrists sore from straining at the bindings but, through it all, he could still feel that soft tender kiss by his ear, that hand on his belly and, passing a hesitant finger over, yes, he found his nipples tender, tingling.

Kneeling, still facing into the corner, he ran his hands over his buttocks. They were bruised. Exploring, he found four small tender patches on each cheek, no doubt when he was pulled upwards just before the shank he'd not been able to use was found.

Losing his train of thought, he realised that he was still touching his butt, caressing it slowly. He placed a hand on his belly, middle finger dipping to brush the top of his prick. He pressed down hard, rubbing his finger back and forth. His other hand now pushed down on the back of his head as he continued to rub his cock feeling it beginning to rise.

He froze. What was he doing? Jerking off he had no qualms about but he was copying what had been done to him.

Elbow jammed into the corner, he leant on his hand, covering his face and let out a despairing sob.

Standing up violently, he began to pace once more, hands jammed under armpits, staring at the floor. The circling slowed and he found himself back in a corner, perhaps the same one. Arms extended, he placed both palms on the wall and stared down. He could practically feel his prick twitching to be touched, to be licked.

Left hand back on his belly again, he let the fingertips brush the top of his shaft playing through the dark wiry hair. He then ran his middle finger down to the head and back. He was repeating the action slowly, just like the tongue had, then fast, then agonisingly slowly, ending by cupping just the end in a loose fist. Not good enough.

At this moment, at this time, he wanted that warm soft mouth around his rising cock. He could imagine the whiskers brushing his thighs. He relaxed the arm to the wall, buried his face in the crook of his elbow and thrust his hips forwards, fucking his own fist. He drew back, plunged again. Repeating the motion he tightened his fist. The hand dry, it tugged at the sensitive skin adding pain to the sensations flooding his body from the groin. Good, he deserved pain; he should not be jerking himself off to fantasies of an unidentified male who used assault as a seduction method. And it shouldn't be working damn it!

He stopped the rapid movements sensing that if continued he would tear skin. He didn't need that much pain. Turning, shoulders braced against the wall, he circled the now leaking head with a delicate finger, spreading his precum then continued the motion with a palm.

A thought struck him making his penis jump. What would it be like to have a cock shoved up his ass? He had a momentary impulse to use his fingers in an attempt to find out then dismissed it with a sickened grunt at himself, despising that he should have thought of such a sickening notion, but still his aching prick begged attention.

Spitting onto his palm, he passed his curled hand up and down the shaft, pressing in along the top, paying particular attention to the spot just behind the head. He could feel the eruption forming, pressure building up. Throwing back his head, the wall connected with the already sore spot, pain shot through him as he spurted a jet of creamy fluid into the air to land feet away adding his own unique stain to the room. In his mind he heard the whispered words once more, "Next time my, Michel."

With an agonised roar he spurted his last and collapsed to the floor where he beat his fists in time to the pounding of his heart. He was going to find out who the bastard was and make him pay for making Miguel Alvarez react like this!

==000==

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Alvarez was released a week later, his hands were a mess of broken skin and bruises. He had bitten his nails to the quick and then had started on the flesh around them. He was taken straight to the hospital ward where he was showered and given the once over by Dr Nathan. Thankfully the finger marks on his ass had almost disappeared so went unnoticed but he had plenty other self-inflicted ones colouring his body in shades from livid purple to the older yellowish patches.

Nathan, familiar with seeing him in such a condition, made a mental note to ensure that any future sujons in the 'Hole' would be accompanied by his daily dose of anti-depressants. The flashing lights of rage competing with the blankness of depression evident in the dark eyes convinced her he was far from ready to have his dosage cut any time soon. She left it to a nurse to tend his abused hands and retreated to her desk.

She studied the pathetic figure of Alvarez as he sat staring at nothing, knowing she should talk to Sister Pete and or Father Mukado to see what else they could do to help him. Prescribing drugs was clearly no permanent answer. It wasn't doing much for the short term either! But she was tired and they'd all tried so hard already and nothing changed. He still acted the hard Latino barrio hombre, cocksure of himself but who always found trouble ending in blood and isolation for others as well as himself.

She dismissed him back to Em City and forgot all about talking to the others as yet another inmate was rushed in, a shank buried deep and broken in his back. Yes. She was so tired of this.

=0=

Alvarez was walking a tightrope. He was running out of time. El Cid had assured him he was safe as long as he kept the pact secret but the pressure building to explain to Rivera why he had taken his eyes was growing and he couldn't trust that El Cid or the others would believe he could holdout. During the day he had to stay away from any chance for them to get at him, so he made sure other bodies always surrounded him. The added benefit of that was that it would keep him out of reach of his 'seducer' too.

At night, in the pod, he felt relatively safe. He would lie there listening to the grunting sleep of his enemy but knowing that the older man was not stupid enough to be found at morning count with a corpse on his hands. But the nights bought other thoughts just as worrying to keep him awake.

For interspersed with the nightmares, other dreams woke him. These, to find hands touching himself. Each time he awoke, he either had to stifle a scream from seeing mutilated eyes, or had a hard-on but not from dreaming of breasts and soft pussy, but hard hands and the scratch of whiskers.

He saw the O'Riely brothers entering the laundry and decided to approach the older, more lucid of the pair. Shoulders casually slumped, hands in pockets, he propped against the washer O'Riely was loading. Cyril sat on the table swinging his leg humming to himself.

"What?" sharp, annoyed most of the man's attention on his brother.

"A deal."

Ryan looked up to see an Alvarez that seemed in control, more assured as in the old days. He was certain it was a front. "Go on. I'm listening."

Miguel scanned through the window checking what interest this meeting was provoking. Seemingly none. "Sister Pete's getting me the orderly job back. I can get stuff."

"What more sharp objects?" Ryan had finished loading and concentrated on the controls but didn't miss the flinch as his remark hit home. 'Yeah right,' he thought, 'your stable.'

Miguel shrugged. "Whatever you need, drugs, sharp objects..." eyefucking Ryan. "Whatever."

"And in return a cut of the take right?" Ryan was dismissive.

"Possibly..." he trailed off. How much would O'Riely risk himself for a more lucrative drug trade?

Ryan raised a curious eyebrow. "Or..?"

Miguel took a breath and went for it, no more pussyfooting around. "Or your help with a problem or two. Bit of muscle backup."

"Hernandez!"

"Amongst other things."

"What?" Ryan seemed suprised. "You got more troubles than that big fuck 'n' co?" He whistled through his teeth. "I wouldn't want to live in your shoes."

Alvarez gave a sneer but silently pleaded. Ryan looked at him for a while. "Pass the conditioner."

Miserable, Miguel picked it up from beside Cyril who was still listening to whatever played in his head. Shit! O'Riely wasn't going to bite.

Opening the bottle and pouring, the Irishman said, "First. Bring me the stuff then I'll consider it." Putting down the bottle he moved closer to Miguel and patted his shoulder, feeling him flinch. An evil spark lit up Ryan's eyes, he'd always liked toying with Alvarez, he was unpredictable. Kept it interesting. Kept him on his toes. Head to one side he decided, "Right. Get the stuff and then we'll work on your 'problems'"

Alvarez felt relieved, hopeful. Ryan patted his cheek softly, laughing then turned to leave calling for Cyril to follow. He waited a moment staring through the Perspex watching Hernandez, Guerra and Ricardo decending the stairs. For once something had gone right, he'd been able to draw in O'Riely without being seen. He walked out of the laundry to take a seat in front of the TV bank feeling better than he had in days. But he had been seen.

Other eyes had watched and did not like that he'd been touched.

=0=

Alvarez sat listening. He'd never spent so much time just listening to all that went on around him before. It wasn't the words that he focused on but the voices. Surely he would be able to recognise that voice? He just knew he knew the speaker but could not match up a face. And the other one, which had been disguised and ended up sounding so proper like in those old British movies. He hated being called Michael.

All his problems with El Cid had begun because he was not Latino enough, 'too white, blanco'. But he knew who he was, where he'd come from, what he was! Or so he had thought.

He focused on the TV as whoops sounded as Miss Sally began to bounce on screen. Yes! He knew what he was! Someone speaking brought his attention back to listening."...time you got past that!" His head snapped around. But no. It was just Keller and Beecher bitching at each other again.

Alvarez turned back to the TV but heard, "Fuck. Come on. Don't walk away. Talk to me." His head slowly swivelled around to catch the altercation from the corner of his eye. Something about Keller's voice tugged at his innards. Beecher was patiently staring his podmate down, saying nothing. He had grown another one of those facial experiments he termed a beard.

Alvarez' blood ran cold. No. No way. Surely not. But the way Keller was acting, he obviously hadn't been getting what he wanted. All his actions lately seemed to involve doing anything that could get him on Beecher's good side. No doubt so he could get on him literally. Would he really help the supposed love of his life capture and then toy with someone else just to keep in his good graces? No. Keller could be a mad fuck but he was territorial also. He wouldn't stand to watch someone he considered his touch someone else.

And what of Beecher? He'd had more than his share of abuse, Keller aside, with that Aryan brother piece of shit Shillinger. Got the swastika on his ass to prove it. He didn't bother hiding it in the showers anymore. Had the limp too. But wasn't it reckoned that often the abused became the abuser? Hell, Keller had. He'd also gone through Shillinger's school of hard knocks and harder shaftings then grown up to aid and abet in the breaking of Beecher's limbs. And heart apparently.

Miguel been narrowing down the list of inmates with hair on faces. He knew it wasn't the Latinos, he'd have been dead as soon as the cloth covered his face and without really knowing why, he was sure that his attackers were white. He'd seen very little, nothing more than a foot, all in a blur but he just felt that they were. Hoyt was also out, far too big to be the body he could feel in his dreams pressed up against him.

He'd not seen anyone suddenly clean shaven either. He'd been able to narrow it down to just four by elimination as the facts or bodies didn't fit. Beecher had still been on the list but not really considered. Now he really had to think. Could he just be caught up in some fucked up game between these to? Just used to continue the mind fucking that went on preventing the real thing? He found it hard to believe but many unimaginable things went on in this place. It bred them.

A load of psychotic, sociopath, rapist, murderous, drugged up testosterone bottled up together and allowed to ferment, off the streets but still a menace to this society. Undoubtedly the outside world thought they all deserved it. Some times so did he but that was best left to the politicians and moralists to argue out. He just had to contend with it. Survive it.

He'd managed to get O'Riely's co-operation in his plans for the Latino contingent as well as watching his back, but he wanted to solve this one himself. He didn't need the whole world to know his ass had a big target hanging off it. It had been near three weeks ago but somehow he just knew they'd not lost interest. His body was healing from the self inflicted marks which had taken longer than the bruises on his butt and touching the back of his head, that had stopped being tender a week ago. He had the feeling he was just being given time to heal.

Yes, they'd been careful. He'd not noticed anyone paying particular attention to him over the usual wariness they all held for each other. He had been extra conscious of his movements but he just knew they would try again and soon. He half hoped they would. They would not find him an easy hit this time, he assured himself. And if it was these two, it looked to be imminent. Keller was bursting. He'd be desperate to do anything to get Beecher to give it up at last.

Beecher turned and walked away still saying nothing. Keller stood watching him leave then turned in the opposite direction and sat at the table holding Hill, Rebadow and Brusmalis. He asked to be dealt in the card game going on under the watch of the Russian. Alvarez slunk down in his chair staring through the TV as his mind slammed itself around his skull.

=0=

"Cyril. Calm down."

He'd been bouncing around the pod for the last half-hour. "But Ryan, Auntie Brenda's commin'," just like a little kid on his birthday. "She'll bring candy." So what was he the more excited about? The visit from a woman Ryan had no time for or the chocolate?

"She did nothing for us growing up. Its just good ole guilt. That's the only reason she's coming." Ryan was getting angry remembering the times he'd turned to her for help and she had done nothing. "We're not goin."

"But Ryan…" Cyril was near tears. "I want to go see her. She'll bring candy!"

Ryan looked at his brother. Why couldn't he remember? But all he saw was that pleading look as Cyril began to rock on the lower bunk, lip quivering as the threatened tears began to fall. All he knew was that his aunt was coming with nice things to eat. "Ryaaan!" that pathetic wailing began again.

Turning to explain once more, holding his anger from showing, Ryan saw that Russian opening their pod door, a smile on his face. "Can we speak my friend?"

"Sure," he replied adding sycasticlly, "Friend." This looked interesting. Maybe he could find out why this man made his business associate so nervous. He had noticed Alvarez acting strange around a few of the inmates whom Ryan would have thought should hold no threat to him. Ryan didn't like mysteries as he craved to know all that happened around him. He needed it to stay ahead, to stay on top of things.

"Ryan. I want to see her. Ryaaan!"

Shit! He didn't need this. "Okay, okay. We'll go see her."

Cyril bounced up once more, a massive smile lighting up his face, tears forgotten as fast as they'd begun. "She'll bring candy."

Ryan watched the Russian watching Cyril. "Bro. Go outside. Stay where I can see you."

"Okay..." the child again. As he moved past the visitor, Ryan got lots of visitors, way more than him, Nikoli put out a hand to stop him.

"Wait a moment," spoken softly, then Nikoli gently wiped the tears from the damp cheeks, brushed Cyril's hair back and tenderly caressed his jaw line.

Ryan grabbed the hand away. Through clenched teeth, "Cyril. Wait outside. Now!" and his brother left, oblivious to the sharp looks exchanged behind his back.

"Yes," spoke Nikoli smiling, "It is not nice when someone else touches that which is yours. Let me tell you a story."

==000==

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

He was slammed face first into the wall. Fuck! But he'd been so careful! He felt like screaming for O'Riely as he would have his mother when frightened as a child. But if the Irishman was somewhere around watching his back, which he doubted, he didn't want to give away his only advantage. Dazed, he still managed to push backwards, his hand trying to reach for the shank in his waistband.

A hard hand over his eyes as he was spun around onto his knees, other hands catching both wrists tying them together. A searching for a weapon, found, it was discarded with that same tutting he remembered, "Oh, Michel."

"Miguel, you bastard. It's Miguel!" He cursed, throwing his head around, trying to dislodge the hand. The owner knelt behind and around him, holding fast his arms to body by his free arm. He was strong holding the struggling Miguel. He removed the hand as the other tide another blindfold onto the still frantically wriggling victim. 'Not again,' Miguel screamed in his head. How could he have let this happen again? So careful, never alone, always watching.

Surely, when he failed to arrive for his appointment with Sister Pete, an alarm would be raised? Right, more likely the nun would figure he'd chickened out and catch up with him later. Where the fuck was O'Riely? Or even a passing Hack? No, these two knew how to plan, how to watch their backs.

He was manhandled around still knelling, bound hands placed high on the wall, knees also touching. "But then, my Michel, you would not know who this is?" That over pronunciation again.

"I know you. Bastard!"

A chuckle. "Good," long drawn out, so close he felt the breath warm on his ear.

He also felt a body slid in behind him, forcing his legs apart, too wide to support himself, forcing him to sit on the man's lap. The already hard cock pressed between his buttocks, only the fabric of their trousers hiding the size. Alvarez was sure that this time he was to find out. He struggled frantically yet knowing it was useless. They had him again. But he would not docilely give in.

The controlling body leant in, ran hands up his arms and, holding his forearms, stretched them further up the wall then his head was pushed forwards and through. "Be still. You will make me come too soon!" Alvarez froze. His frantic movements had done nothing but grind his ass on the man's crotch. He remained rigid. "Better. But relax. Enjoy." That bloody conceit again.

If this was Beecher, how could Keller just stand by and watch? But it must be them. No other two fit with what he knew! Soon, he vowed, he would remove them from his tortured existence. But now he could do nothing. Now there was a mouth kissing the stretched nape of his neck. Dry light kisses followed by moist warmth as the mouth covered the bone at the top of his spine, the teeth gently pressing in, tongue licking, massaging.

Alvarez shuddered.

Hands surrounded his waist, pulling up his shirt then moving under to explore his chest, pressing in firmly then tracing the line of muscles with light fingertips. Oh, Miguel remembered this. Felt it in his dreams where he had even less control over his mind's wanderings. He had no more control now as his body wanted to abandon all to the sensations these knowing hands were eliciting.

But he couldn't, wouldn't abandon his lifelong knowledge that this was wrong for him.

In one swift movement, his nipples were grabbed and tugged none too gently as the man behind reared upwards taking him along, the top of his head scraping along the wall, torture on his knees. His attacker was not being so gentle this time. Abandoning the play on his now sore nipples, one hand headed down his lean stomach and slid into the waistband, stopping to play in hair then continued onto his cock. The thing was stirring, damn it! The other hand circled around his waist to descend down his back, fingers dipping to divide his cheeks. "Umm. Better. But still too thin. Eat my Michel."

"I'm not your fucking Michael!" angry at the mispronunciation, desperately trying to ignore the hands.

"Ahh.! But I am fucking you. My Michael."

"I'm not your..." he began again as a finger delicately began to explore his arsehole, on his cock, a slow rhythmic stroking. All language fled. He wanted to fight, get away but stayed still. Whichever way he moved would push him onto fingers, either into the stroking on his cock or back onto the still playful finger on his rim. "Stop it. Stop it. Please!" he begged out, unsure whether speaking to this attacker, who had managed to get him once more, or his own cock that was showing its excitement against his will and the stroking fingers.

He was amazed as the hands were removed, replaced by building panic as his jeans were swiftly unbuttoned and yanked downwards to cut tightly across his extended thighs. A harder grip on his stirring shaft, a movement behind him and a now wet finger returned to caress his hole then gently force its way in. "No!" he sobbed out, pushing his face into the wall. It had sounded plaintive, half giving in. The finger pushed further and stilled, waiting. "Relax," another purr.

How could he relax? This was a fucking nightmare! A waking nightmare as bad as any his mind could throw up. Worse. The finger did not push anymore but began a small circling as more attention was applied to his cock, a slow steady rubbing up and down, fingertips catching his balls, tickling, taunting.

Miguel couldn't help it, he began to move, first forwards to try to get the fingers to press harder, but then back, trying to expel the probing finger. He was way past confused. He didn't want the invasion but the motions on his cock were stirring feelings deep in his belly as well as lower.

Forwards again into the stroking. He relaxed his passage for a renewed pushing out and the finger took its chance and pushed in up to its length. He let out a hoarse, choking sob. It hurt! But suprisingly not as much as he'd feared. His body clenched, tightening up once more.

A mouth was at the back of his neck kissing, caressing, forcing a way under the collar of his top. A cheek against his left shoulder, rubbing like a cat wanting to be stroked. Then more kisses travelling along his upper arm, licking, outlining the artwork there. A shifting and he was allowed to relax into a more comfortable knelling position. Comfortable? He had a finger shoved up his ass!

The man in charge started a slow rocking movement taking Miguel backwards then forwards into the surrounding, tightening fist whilst pushing with the embedded finger. Then back, hand sliding to the head of his rapidly hardening prick, fingers pressing in around it, underneath, a thumb moving across the slit picking up and spreading the leaking precum there.

This was torture of another kind. Unknowingly, Miguel took up the rocking himself, yearning forwards, pushing his now erect prick into those pressing fingers wanting harder handling. Then back, wanting to impale himself further.

He had no choice, his body had taken over no matter what his mind yelled out. His body wanted this! He was reared upwards once more as the man behind shifted, speaking over his shoulder, "The gel!" Seconds past and Miguel felt a cold spurt on his stretched arsehole, heard a grunt from above him. How could that other one just stand by and watch this happening? He sensed him retreat, perhaps standing lookout.

All thought disappeared as a second finger was forced up inside him. He was rigid, straining up on his tortured knees as the pain coursed through him, his teeth clenched to tightly to allow the pained gasp from escaping. Then, no movement as he was being given time to adjust. Panting, gasping he remained still, willing the pain to recede.

The hand left his prick eliciting a groan from deep within him but his balls were gently grasped, rolled around within their sack and his arse began to relax as the pain abated. Miguel experimented and pushed back. It was uncomfortable but strangely he found he somehow enjoyed the tight stretched feeling. That low purr like chuckling by his left ear and the fingers began to move circling, stretching, widening him.

Miguel relaxed his arms, his head coming back through, turning his face towards the breaths he could feel against his skin. A cheek rubbed against his. Moving backwards, his mouth getting closer, Miguel strained his neck hoping to catch the other's mouth. There was a kiss to the corner of his own, a lick to his lips. He pushed himself from the wall, back arching, shoulders dropping to gain more access to that mouth.

The fingers in him began a scissoring, stretching him wide then retreating slightly, pushed back in, thumb on the outside between cheeks joining in the movements trapping him. Moaning, Miguel couldn't stand it any longer. He could not believe that he wanted more. His bound hands moved to find the hand cupping his balls. He caught it and it let itself be placed on his now throbbing cock, wrapped it around and pressed down with his own, begging. He forced his torso to twist further, his lips still straining for contact with that warm mouth. It caught his own, soft moist lips surrounded by scratchy whiskers, an almost tentative kiss then harder, tongue playing with the underside of his top lip as yet another finger entered him to join the dancing within.

Miguel's mouth opened gasping out in surprise, not only at the intrusion but that he welcomed it. The other man seized the moment to thrust his tongue in, seeking and finding his own. Miguel truly responded, all hesitation and inhibitions gone, enjoying the resistance as he pushed against the warm pressure filling his mouth. He was being tongue fucked, finger fucked, his cock being surrounded, stroked and pulled by three hands, his own bound ones setting the pace. Thrusting back against the fingers, he abandoned all up to sensation. From his mouth, from his cock, from his ass!

Shuddering, adding jerky movements to the rhythm he realised he was setting, he controlled, his mind gave a final rebellion screaming denial but too late. He went rigid once more, this time as he shot his load, feeling as if it came from his soul. He shook once, twice as the last of him left hitting the wall in front. Then all was gone. The fingers were swiftly removed, hand and mouth leaving with a satisfied sigh and a delighted laugh. It rang in his ears, in his head as he collapsed to the floor, rolling into a ball on his side.

He was shaking as he couldn't believe that he'd just come and with such force. His head fell back gasping. A light kiss to his mouth, along his jaw to that spot just under his left ear. "Oh, my Michel..." Long drawn out. Another brief kiss then the body retreating. "Show yourself to me tonight. You'll know how. And tomorrow...I'll do something nice for you!"

He was about to ask why, what? as he felt his hands untied and sensed a rapid withdrawal then heard feet running, receding.

Gasping, he untangled his hands and removed the blindfold. He couldn't believe they'd just left him like this. That man had been so hard yet he had just left! He must have a great deal of control over his body. One thing for sure, Miguel now knew he had none. He had...he'd enjoyed this! His body had cried out for the attention and all his self-control, what little he had at the best of times, had fled somewhere around the second finger!

He climbed unsteadily to his hands and knees, seeing his fluid on the wall. Shit. Fuck! What was happening to him? Beyond the obvious, he'd been taken again, but he'd enjoyed it! Pulling himself up by the wall, he then bent to retrieve his jeans noticing the marks where his waistband had dug heavily into his thighs. There would be more bruising.

Fastening them, he felt his arse sticky, feeling as if it was gapping and sore. Soreness he actually had to admit he rather liked. There was a jump in his belly and a pain shooting across his mind. Stooping, he braced himself with one hand on the wall and picked up the bindings. His fingers touched the cum.

Standing, he rubbed fingers and thumb together, his mind whirring. He didn't care that it would be left there to be found, proof of his body's betrayal. Right now he didn't care about anything but finding out who these men were that could make him go from fear filled terror to pleasure by the use of hands.

What he wasn't certain about was what he would do when he eventually found out their identities. He began to make his way back to the hospital ward, pushing the bindings deep into a pocket, his mind seething with conflicting thoughts, his body conflicting emotions.

==000==

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

'Lights Out' once more and he was feeling strung out after taunts from his podmate. If he stood for 'Morning Count' with a corpse on his hands, would he live and die in solitary, a family tradition or would he end on death row? At least there he'd have someone to talk to. Stop these thoughts! He may be self-destructive as the Nun told him but not suicidal. Well, at least not now he was back on the pills. He hadn't gone through these past desperate years to be finished so easily. But finishing it did have its appeal. No more fighting, no more grief or pain.

No! He was a survivor. He'd fought for it tooth and nail for so long. He couldn't give up.

Lying on his bunk, he waited for the regular noises to indicate that Hernadez was asleep. He obviously held no dread of Alvarez. Insulting, but Miguel had to admit, realistic. Slipping from his bunk, a glance told him that Hernandez was indeed asleep. How long had it taken? Five minutes? Ten? Miguel knew he would have hours yet. His mind would not let him rest and when finally he did sleep, no doubt it would be fitful, filled with visions of blood, mutilation or possibly worse. An unknown figure causing feelings he still shied away from.

Quietly, he padded around the pod, bare feet on concrete, trying to tire himself out. Yet his body was already tired. He ached so much. Coming to the front window, he stretched with his arms high then relaxed down to sit, knees drawn up, forehead to the window and stared out.

There was not much to see. A few small lights from the Hack's station, one doing the rounds shinning torch reflecting off the Plexiglas. The beam found him. He stared into it letting the light startle his eyes leaving green spots floating and cutting out all else.

The torch lost interest and moved on. Things becoming quiet once more then a banging on a window warning the occupants to move away from each other. He didn't know where, didn't care who, he just continued staring, watching the green dots recede.

The cold began to seep into his buttocks through his boxers contrasting with the slight burning of his asshole. He would have expected it to be on fire but he hadn't been taken by force. Well, yes he had. He hadn't asked for fingers to be shoved up his arse but it hadn't been brutal. Not exactly gentle, but far from violent.

His head slid to his knees, forehead catching on the glass. The graze on his forehead was tender. He felt marked. It had caused some interest once back in the bullpen but with everyone being so used to seeing each other with scrapes, bruises and worse, he went fairly dismissed. He stared around the pods but could see no other movement except the occasional turn in sleep. No one else seemed to be peering out. Hadn't he been told to show himself? That conceit! Somehow that was the worst thing. This unknown, well he was pretty sure he knew, man just knew what affect he was having on Miguel, knew how to play his own body against him.

He began to squirm where he sat feeling the soreness, a heat growing in direct comparison to the cold seeping from the floor. He wasn't really surprised anymore at the warmth growing in his belly and a thickening of cock as he went over what had happened that afternoon. He shifted as the boxers became tight and uncomfortable. He looked across and down trying to see into Keller's pod. Was it really them? He could see nothing, the angle prevented him from seeing anything that was not directly by the window.

Was it the same back? Could he be seen from there? Being told to show himself it stood to reason whoever it was knew he would be able to see him? Or was it just another mindfuck game? Seeing how far he was willing to go along with the whole thing. Well fuck them. He wasn't playing!

He let his head fall back against the concrete wall and stared upwards trying to imagine he could see the sky. No chance. His boxers were also tight on his thighs so he stretched his legs out in front of him pulling up the fabric to inspect the marks. In the darkness of the pod he could just make out the darker lines, one on each leg, which he knew, ran near all way around, only his inner thighs clear.

Yes, he was marked. Marked out by bastards who seemed to gain their pleasure by forcibly inflicting it on others. He still couldn't grasp what they got from it. Could they really get their rocks off just by giving pleasure? Or was there more involved? Much more to come? It wasn't over he was certain.

Was it a game? A twisted game to see if they could get someone to change? Change from being totally one hundred percent hetro to be craving the attentions of another man? Surly that wasn't possible? But it was working on him! So maybe he'd been wrong in his assumptions, always playing the hard streetwise 'hombre grande'. Maybe he had always denighed something inside. No, that wasn't right was it? No. Shit, he just didn't know anymore.

Restless again, he stood and resumed the pacing. He was feeling caged in. Hell, he was caged in! He moved to the front window, once more pressing his face to the Plexiglas. Looking through cupped hands, he was hoping that if he could see the space out there he'd stop feeling as if the walls were closing in, that the cell was getting steadily smaller. Pod he reminded himself, there weren't supposed to be any cells in the Emerald City. A cynical grunt as he stretched upwards, arms high above his head onto toes, reaching for he knew not what. Then relaxing, Miguel leant his whole body against the cold plastic.

Everything about the nights here was cold. Except him, he felt like he was burning from the inside out. Arms still raised, he placed both palms spread out, forehead leaning on the coolness he hoped would seep into him. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, concentrating on the coldness that only his feet appeared to feel. He sighed stepped back and relaxed.

Turning, he threw himself onto his bunk, causing a grunt from above him. Now that made his blood run cold. Shit! But the bunk above him stayed still. Climbing under the meagre bedding, he wrapped himself up purposefully ignoring the soreness in his behind, the stirring in front and waited for sleep, oblivious to the fact that he had done exactly as he had been told.

==000==

In the queue for breakfast he wasn't hungry. He'd have thought that after being starved in solitary he would have eaten everything placed in front of him, but no. He had no appetite. He could still hear that strange overly modulated voice, "Eat my Michael." But was it that strange? He looked across the canteen finding the table where sat Beecher, Keller and their usual companions. He edged along with the slow moving line considering turning and heading to the infirmary early, but that would look suspicious. He'd been successful in smuggling out small quantities of drugs for O'Riely these last few days so didn't want to blow it by showing too eager to be there.

He felt a shove from behind. Swinging around on the defensive, he found Shillinger just stood staring at him. The man made a gesture for him to move along. A sneer and Alvarez slowly turned back to the queue, catching the eye of O'Riely who nodded slightly hinting that he needed to speak. 'Later' he nodded in return.

Moving along, getting his food slopped onto a tray, he considered where to sit. It had never been a problem until recently. He would have joined his fellow Latinos but they were not his anymore and he didn't trust them not to try something in here. Many had met violence over food. None of the groups would welcome him. In fact, most all would view him with suspicion and worse, derision. He headed to the only remotely empty seating area uncomfortably close to Rebadow and the rest. He still needed to speak to the man but this was not the time.

Five sets of eyes moved to him as he made to sit a few seats away then saw the signal to join them and, after a moments hesitation, he sat next to Brusmalis opposite Beecher. Shit. Shit. Shit. But then, fuck it, maybe he could find out for sure if this was the man haunting him. He'd had enough. He needed to know was this the man that had taken his admittedly shaky world and turned it upside down. Head in hand he toyed with his food trying to be invisible.

It seemed to have worked as the others resumed their conversation, something about an incident involving Guerra resulting in him being in intensive care in the hospital ward. Miguel's head snapped up. This must have been recent, this morning as there had been no word last night. He hadn't bothered looking at that faction other than to judge their position so had not registered a missing face. His interest was noted.

"Say? You didn't have anything to do with it did ya?" Keller asked leaning forwards and into Beecher.

"Wha..No!" he replied as Beecher pushed his podmate away. Alvarez went back to studying his food, trying to ignore the pushing match going on across the table. Gurrera was near death and he hadn't had to lift a finger, had not been involved. Things could be starting to work in his favour.

He idly wondered what had happened. He'd be able to find out when speaking to O'Riely later. That man had a morbid fascination with this kind of thing.

Beecher threw down his fork in exasperation. God, how tense must it be in their pod each night? No worse than his own, he reckoned. Seemingly wanting a distraction, Beecher spoke to Alvarez, "That good huh?" He'd noticed Miguel pushing his food around.

"Que.?"

"The food. That good?" A pause then, "You know? You should eat more! You're turning to skin and bones."

Alvarez's head slowly lifted to stare at him, his hand tightening on his fork grasping it like a shank. Unconcerned blue eyes peered back; it had only been a throwaway remark. Miguel tensed, thoughts involving the fork deep in Beecher's neck, so open, so vulnerable, just like he'd been made to feel. He lurched forwards across the table just as another spoke from a couple of seats away.

"I agree. Mikhail, you are too thin."

Miguel's hands slammed onto the table using his forward motion to swing in that direction. "What?" he spat, "For your tastes?" He wanted to scream it. Beecher had moved back, Keller forwards with death in his eyes, the canteen went silent before whispers and laughs surfaced. And the Russian? He just sat there staring at him with that incredibly annoying smile to his lips.

Alvarez's head pounded. He'd just been so sure of Beecher then that Russian had spoken that nerve jarring Michael. He looked from one to the other, his mouth twisting as he held in a scream of frustration and pain. Lost, not knowing what to do, he threw himself away from the table and ran from the hall, not caring at the spectacle he made. He just had to get away.

He stood leaning against the corridor wall, shaking until a Hack moved up, "Hey, you stayin' or goin? But move!" and he fled back to Em City to be let through the gates to the thankfully near deserted brightly lit hell that was the closest thing to home.

Back in the canteen bemused voices and expressions. "What was that all about?"

Rebadow was answered by Brusmalis whilst still shovelling food in, "Maybe he's not hungry." Beecher let out a relived laugh. He'd known violence had been heading towards him. Keller turned to the Russian, staring daggers but Nikoli just smiled to himself and continued to eat.

He had made a slip, a stupid mistake but it was time his Mikhail knew him and realised what he had done for him this morning. What he would continue to do for him. And behind the food counter Ryan thought maybe he should have spoken up earlier.

==000==

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

In the Hospital ward on his morning shift, Miguel tried to find out as much as possible about the attack on Guerra and, more importantly to Alvarez, if he was likely to recover. Information was suprizingly scarce. No one seemed to know who had attacked him and the man, unconscious in bed hooked up to monitors and IV drips, was not telling. From all Miguel could see through the door it looked bad. Such a shame! He was smirking. He tried to get in to make sure that one of his enemies would never tell but got stopped by a Hack.

"What missin' your friend?" sarcastically spoken by Howell.

Miguel turned and tried to think of something innocent sounding to say. "What happened to him?"

"Come off it Alvarez. You're more likely to know than me. What, finally had enough? Tried but failed? That why you skulkin' here? Come to finnish the job?" The hack stared at him, trying to gage if she had hit the mark.

Shit. Miguel replied aghast, "Me? I don't know nothin'. Nothin' to do with me!"

Howell laughed. "Lucky though, huh?"

Miguel glanced away, Fuck! More trouble for him he just didn't need and if he was the Hack's favourite for the job, what of Herandez and Ricardo? If he managed to survive this day, what of the night? No, surely the morning count theory still held true but he could expect little sleep.

"Well?" She inquired leaning in, "Don't ya want to confess?"

Alvarez gave her an evil look. He thought that he had escaped the whore bitch on leaving solitary. "Arcch, have I upset you?" She tired of the game. "Get movin' and stay away from here!"

He almost ran but instead nonchalantly walked back to the main ward, feeling her glare behind him. The drugs in his underwear felt so enormous surely she would see them but as he turned the corner and glanced back, he saw her peering in at Guerra laughing. 'Yeah, she was only glad when one of us feels pain,' he thought. The fucking bitch! She had relished beating him.

Heading to the canteen for a lunch he didn't want, Ryan O'Riely appeared from no where, beckoning him over. They moved to the shadows but there was nowhere near here completely private. Miguel scratched his belly looking to the Irish man. "What you want man?"

Ryan, eyes searching around, poked him in the stomach, the sign that all was clear. The drugs were quickly retrieved by the still scratching fingers and passed on. They were going to have to change the routine, one to be safe and two before people began to think him infested with something the amount of scratching he did. "Your ass is in big trouble, hermano!"

Alvarez could have laughed, if only he knew how true that was. "Had nothin' to do with Guerra. They can't pin that one on me." That he was confident about. The only thing.

Ryan grinned "No. I said your ass!"

'Oh God,' thought Miguel, 'what do you know?' He stared at the dancing face and wanted to smash it. Fists clenched, he managed to sound uninterested, "Yeah? And why's that?"

"I heard a story." The grin widening, Ryan leant in, a finger running up the other man's arm. He knew he had his full attention as Alvarez was pretty crap at covering his feelings. "'Bout a man in another prison. Another man took a liking to him, started watching, following him. Never into man on man, knew nothing till he found himself repeatedly 'taken'."

Ryan watched Alvarez closely, playing with the hem of his sweatshirt, poking him in the ribs on the last word and felt him tense up. He was enjoying this. Miguel didn't move, was seeing something besides O'Riely. "Couldn't do nothin' about it. Got to like it!" That was definitely a flinch. Ryan let his fingers play on Alvarez's skin, the man appeared to be oblivious, he carried on, "All around him bad things happened, to his enemies, some friends as well. Knew he was next." Ryan couldn't resist embellishing his stories. He paused.

"And?" sounding like he really didn't want to know, but he did. He was scared.

"His admirer made himself known. Nothing he could do, he was caught..."

"And?" very quietly, very nervously.

Oh yes, Ryan was definitely having fun. "They lived happily ever after." Alvarez looked up at him, disbelief in his haunted eyes. "Until that is.." Ryan was making this up as he went along, "the man was found dead."

Alvarez swallowed hard "Wha..?"

"Well his admirer was leaving prison. Time up. Couldn't leave his little love behind for someone else now could he?" Miguel seemed to shrink before his yes. Yes, it was always fun toying with this Latino. Ryan patted Miguel's stomach, a slight smacking sound, hand on skin.

Alvarez studied O'Riely through lowered lashes, always flirting, always touching him but now he just couldn't summon up the energy to slap him off. And the man loved telling this tale. Surely he couldn't know. But then again?

"Who told you this 'story'?" Ryan obviously knew of the attacks, knew his attacker! He must do.

The grin flashed, evil glints in his eyes and he leant in to whisper to him but then must have seen something behind Miguel for he sprang backwards and away. "Gotta go." He looked almost scared, very unusual.

Miguel spun around. What, who had he seen? But it could have been anything, anyone as a whole load of prisoners walked along the corridor heading for the trough and feeding time. Not one seemed interested in him, no faces stood out, none of his suspects. He had missed who or whatever had spooked O'Riely.

Miguel lost what little appetite he had and headed back to the infirmary. "Changed my mind," he mumbled to the Hack on the gate. But one thing he could do, knock Beecher off his list for certain. He'd never been in another prison.

==000== 

Miguel slowly headed back to the 'bullpen'. With his last shift of the day over he had no more excuses to stay in the infirmary. He knew he faced another sleepless night spent fretting over Hernandez' not so heavily veiled threats. He would be lucky to survive the day. He had to act first and soon!

After speaking with O'Riely, he had stayed in the hospital and, after no lunch, what little breakfast he had forced down still felt a solid knot stuck in his stomach. Instead of the afternoon drugs for Ryan, he'd just have to wait till later if there was indeed to be a later for him, Miguel had stolen something for himself. He could feel it now, a reassuring metallic hardness safely concealed at his spine. He had to be ready.

It had come on his way back from a session with Sister Pete this afternoon. Oh they knew him; he was always distracted after visiting the nun. All it took was the Hack sending him on around the corner to head back to the ward and they were on him! Death bore down in the form of Hernandez and Ricardo. Slammed against the wall, he dropped to the ground, hand going to his back to grab his makeshift shank. Too late! He was kicked in the stomach, the breath knocked out of him, his head yanked up hard by his hair leaving his throat exposed and vulnerable.

Oh God! His final sight in this world would be the ugly smiling face of Hernandez. He knew he was to die now as he saw it in the eyes staring at him.

Shouts, running feet, a scuffle and he was released and left gasping on all fours. The commotion brought other feet running around the corner. "What the hells goin' on out here?" A hack followed by others but all Miguel could see was a forest of legs. Not caring how meek he looked, he crawled away and climbed to his feet, looking back once and fled towards the hospital ward, the confusion in the hallway hiding his flight.

Once more he had managed to narrowly escape death!

=0=

"Lockdown. Lockdown!" sounded over the speakers and Miguel was pushed against the wall as the S.W.O.T. team ran past, shields at the ready through the gates into Em City. A Hack held him there as the inmates were herded into the pods. "Where the hell you been Alvarez?" Murphy advanced towards him.

"Hospital ward," sulkily as he wondered what the hell was going on, the attack on him would not have caused this.

"Anyone see ya?" Murphy was angry but resigned, just another day, another incident for the head officer to deal with.

"Dunt, don't know." Miguel was nervous. What did the man think he had done? Thank God he'd already passed on today's consignment to O'Riely, as he could not face the thought of 'The Hole' or worse, solitary. Not now. Not now he had finally come to a decision and it had to be carried out soon.

"Yeah, he just came from that way," a faceless hack supplied. "Can soon check it out with Nathan when he left. I reckon he's clear." Relief, but clear of what?

"Take him in," Murphy ordered and Miguel's 'saviour', one he didn't even recognise, grabbed his upper arm and frog marched him into the chaos in Em City as it was swiftly being brought under control. Men banging on windows, hoots, shouts, prisoners held to the floor swearing defiance. "Back to his pod." The Head Officer commanded as he followed them in.

"Murphy. Not possible," another uniformed figure spoke.

"What?" disbelief on the head guard's face at being countermanded.

"That's where we just found the bodies!"

"What?" Murphy swore mightily as Alvarez went into shock, staring open mouthed towards his pod with Murphy watching his reaction carefully.

Bodies. Plural. In his pod? Who? How? It took a moment or more to register. Bodies in his pod. In his pod? His next thought wondered if he was supposed to be one of them.

"Shit!" Murphy again deciding, "Right take him to solitary till we can find somewhere."

..No..! He began to yell, "I've done nadda, nothing," and began to struggle against the hands holding him, breaking out sweating. Not there, please God. Not for nothing!

The hands holding him tightened their grip and Miguel just slumped, shaking, "What about Gen Pop or...that pod?" his restrainer indicated with his head, "Only got one in it."

"Okay. Okay!" Murphy said exasperated, losing his patience big time. "Just lock him in somewhere!" Alvarez was shoved through the door immediately turning to press against the window.

What the Fuck was going on? He watched as several inmates were hauled up from the floor and taken away, Beecher, Keller, a couple of the Aryan gang and for good measure, Cyril O'Riely. All were showing evidence of a fierce fight with Cyril screaming for Ryan and Ryan banging on his pod windows looking down, screaming at Murphy.

Things slowly began to quieten down as the men were carried away, their defiant voices fading as they were taken from view. Responding to the hasty radio call, interns rushed by carrying stretchers directed up the stairs to Miguel's usual pod. He strained to see but once away from the window the figures disappeared.

Two corpses were brought down and Miguel just had time to see the lifeless face as Hernandez was carried past. A movement from the other stretcher, a yelled "We got a live one!" as they speeded up but from the look on their faces there was some doubt it would last.

Alvarez couldn't believe it! He just kept repeating, "fuck, fuck, fuck" under his breath, still bodily plastered against the glass, trying to see as much as possible before they went out of view.

"O'Riely. Shut the fuck up!" screamed Murphy up at him. Ryan gave a final beating to the window then retreated from view.

Miguel relaxed somewhat, just stood staring at the floor. What the hell had happened? This afternoon he had had to run for his life, literally from Hernandez and Riccardo. Now they were dead or close to it. Could his problems be over with after this and once his decision was carried out? He'd had nothing to do with this. Sure he'd be questioned, McManus knew there had been 'stuff' going on between the Latino population but Alvarez was clear, no where near it. Even that Hack had said so! He let out a huge sigh, throwing his head back, triumph surging through him. His enemies were dead or in intensive care. The bane of his life gone!

"You are happy my friend?"

Miguel spun around. With all the action going on outside he hadn't spared a thought for where he was. He stopped breathing as his eyes took in the other occupant.

Nikoli Petrovich Stanislavski sat calmly looking up at him with that damned smile on his lips with his eyes dancing.

"Fuck!" spat Miguel grabbing at his head as he sank down to sit on the floor.

==000==

TBC…


	7. Chapter 7

"First my friend, you can remove your shank."

Miguel just continued to rock, cross-legged on the floor, head in hands. He was in hell. A moment before he had been elated, but continuing the flow of his life, it had lasted mere seconds. He was only half-aware of the Russian casually rising and moving towards him. All that went through his mind was a mantra of shit fuck shit fuck in time to his rocking. He had finally come to a discussion on how to deal with his repeated attacker but this situation had not figured in his plans.

He was fucked, figuratively and no doubt soon, literally! Nikoli placed a hand on Miguel's shoulder and bent over him to search the back of his waistband. Retrieving the home made weapon, he spoke laughingly, "You really should have found a new hiding place." He checked through the glass to make sure they were not being observed before removing the sharpened, what? No, it was a hospital scalpel. Nicoli bit his cheek in thought. Maybe he had underestimated his Miguel. Was this a more dangerous game than he had bargained for?

But it wasn't a game. He wanted this man, wanted him to be his, not in some master and bitch senario but wanted him, body, soul and mind. Well, he knew he may have trouble with the last part. Miguel had a reputation, no one would ever considered him stable, totally sane, but he wanted him psychosis and all. And he wanted Miguel to consider him his. Half of what he had told to O'Riely, knowing that a version would reach this young Latino male sat at his feet, was bullshit but the intent was there. So far he had turned the tale true and intended to follow through to the end.

He squeezed Miguel's shoulder and straightening, ran a hand slowly up the rocking man's face. No reaction, just that damned rocking, mumbling words in a language the Russian could not understand. This was not good. He hid the scalpel, knowing Alvarez would have a hard time finding it and anyway, he needed a new one, he had left his latest shank in a body. He checked Miguel was not secretly watching but whatever he was staring at was not on this planet.

Turning back, he had been just in time. Murphy was staring in at Miguel, a puzzled look to his face. He turned to Nikoli, a question in his eyes. Nikoli just shrugged nonplussed. Murphy moved away shaking his head. What was one more crazy con to him but a pain in his butt, it could wait.

"Mikhail. Stop this Mikhail!"

"Miguel," quietly then, "Its Miguel, you fuckin' bastard!" he screamed, eyes filled with uncontrolled anger. "You can't even fuckin' get my fuckin' name right!" He looked about to spring from the floor. Nikoli remained still, appearing relaxed. The spark of rage and hatred fled from Miguel's eyes to be replaced by glazed fear and he scuttled back to jam himself in the corner, arms covering his head.

Nikoli relaxed for real. Inside he had been ready for the violence threatened in those angry rich brown eyes but now he grinned. He knew he was winning and at least his object of fascination and desire had finally stopped rocking but the look of fear had upset him. He could wait. He knew how.

Climbing onto the top bunk, he laid on his side with head propped on arm and settled down to watch what his Mikhail would do next.

=0=

In the last hour or so Nikoli had begun to talk, much of it meaningless, little observations about his short time in America, his shorter time here in OZ but now he was getting to the point. Telling what he wanted the man in the corner to know. It took a while for Miguel to realise, over an hour in fact, but half sentences had started breaking through into his numb mind.

All these nights trying not to think and failing, he realised he had no idea how much time had past since 'Lockdown'. He'd gone into a fugue aware of nothing but, as he began to surface, he remained still and truly began to listen to this man. This man. The one who had changed everything in his inner world, feelings, emotions and his reactions. From what he was now saying, if Miguel was hearing right, his outside world too.

"...will be a problem. Not too happy Cyril got involved but should not be too hard to appease. Can blame it on Keller." A chuckle, "Now Beecher? He will not be a happy man when he finds out what his 'friend' has been up to. What do you think?" Alvarez gave no reaction. "No?" Nikoli continued.

Nikoli had not been answered for the last hour or so but surely if he just kept talking eventually the silent man would respond. If not? He'd have to shake him out of it or something as it was getting on his nerves. He was starting to worry that he had broken the man, that his mind had finally shattered. Possible, but Nikoli prayed not, that wasn't part of the plan and not acceptable.

"Made a very good distraction don't you think? No one noticed me, what with all the noise going on."

What was he talking about? The fight just a distraction? No one saw him? What had he done? Miguel's mind sharpened. Do something nice for you. Guerra in hospital. That look he had seen in the Russian's eyes after the incident this afternoon when a group of inmates had come across him struggling to get away from Hernandez and Ricardo. He'd been so scared, so desperate to get away he had failed to register who it had been to turn the corner and halt the attempted assassination.

Now, hours later he saw it all in his memory, Beecher, Keller, O'Riely and him. The man sharing this room. Now confessing to him. It was as clear as a slow motion instant replay. The look on his face had spoken of death to those trying to kill Miguel, and so it had happened.

"I owe the Hack too," he continued. "I suppose I should not really be telling all this to you but who would you tell? McManus? Would he believe you? 'You' are the one they have been trying to kill. What would little old Nikoli have to do with them? No incidents ever reported, no reason for me to harm them."

Miguel moved slightly so he could peer up at the Russian sitting on the top bunk actually swinging his legs as if having fun. "Oh, my Mikhail. You have returned." Miguel stared disbelivingly. Nikoli just shrugged then hoped off the bunk causing Miguel to flinch.

A barely contained laugh and the Russian turned undoing his jeans to piss, with his back to Alvarez, he sighed contentedly.

Miguel couldn't believe the man was so calm, that he had turned his back unconcerned! A brief impulse to attack now, he made to get up finding his whole body stuff. He couldn't manage it! How long had he been hunched in this corner? He had to pull himself up by the wall, grunting at the stiffness. Nicoli looked over his shoulder then returned to doing himself up and moved to lean against the wall, arms loosely crossed. He just stood smiling.

Miguel moaned under his breath and turned away to lean against the window, staring out. His whole 'being' ached. He shoved his hands under his armpits and leaning heavily with his forehead on glass, slowly twisted his torso side to side. Silence from behind.

Pins and needles began to shoot through his limbs. He let his arms dangle, shaking hands and began to lightly jump on the spot trying to get his circulation to work. A minute and he relaxed, ignoring the man behind him. He wouldn't try any thing with Miguel on view to the Hacks still doing the rounds. The pain receding, he stretched up, his arms high then relaxed against the glass staring forwards, looking for a way out of this.

Seeing Murphy, he banged on the glass and the Senior Hack moved towards him. "Alvarez. What?"

He took the chance, "Murphy, move me out, back up there!" He indicated his own pod.

Murphy shook his head. "Needs cleaning. You want sleep in blood?" Miguel goggled at him. "Lucky for you, you weren't in there. You could well be gone too."

"Put me in another pod man!" he tried not to sound too needy.

"Alvarez. I'm not in the mood! Its here or solitary. What's up, don't like your new playmate?" He indicated Nikoli behind with his head. "He not playin' nice?" Alvarez sneered at him. "Well d'ya want a night in solitary?" Miguel could say nothing. "Thought so." And Murphy left.

Miguel just stood stretched out on the glass, hitting his forehead once, twice then was still. Fuck! He'd balked at the chance to get out of this pod. But solitary? No. No way. He'd gone cold at the thought. He would go mad, could feel himself halfway there.

"Thank you, my Mikhail"

"What for?" he sneered backwards to see Nikoli appraising him from raised hands to feet and was sure that in the man's eyes he was naked.

"I like it when you show yourself to me." He shrugged but the accompanying leer proved it a calculated gesture.

Miguel didn't understand then realisation hit. He'd stood like that two nights ago. The night before Guerra had ended up in the hospital. The bastard thought he had done it on purpose! So Guerra was in intensive care and still no one knew who had done it. Until now. So that had been the 'something nice'.

Alvarez turned around slowly as if encased in molasses, engulfed. And he was. Surrounded by this man's protection, unasked for but there. He had killed for him, had gotten rid of his enemies! Miguel stared, collapsing back against the glass, incredulous that this man had murdered to keep him safe. Why? To protect Miguel for Miguel? He wasn't that gullible. Nikoli wanted to make sure his toy wasn't taken away, spoilt!

The Russian remained by the back wall, his eyes glinting. Yes, Miguel understood. "You are correct," he purred, so Goddamn annoying, "No one harms 'My Mikhail'." a statement of fact. "No one 'touches' my Mikhail!"

Alvarez's mouth had become a desert "Exce.." he tried again, "Except you?" he hazarded. Nikoli just smiled head to one side.

Several conflicting emotions rushed through Miguel. Wonder, disbelief, gratitude. He had eliminated those that wanted him dead. Hell, had tried repeatedly! He had almost felt as if he had a charmed life like a cat the amount of attempts he had survived but mostly now he felt fear once more. Fear of the unknown, of what this man would do to him, what this man could make him feel.

"Lights out!" Oh… Shit!

Miguel remained exactly where he was. If he stayed there all night by the window in view of the Hacks, surely he would be left alone, untouched. His belly did a flip letting him know that it didn't really want to be. Shit! Fuck! Dammit! He had to keep control over his body or it would lead him where he just didn't want to go. Not again. He'd been weak but now he had decided what he must do and could not let himself down again!

Nikoli moved to the sink, cleaning teeth, washing face and hands. Then very slowly began to undress.

Alvarez stood paralysed and watched certain that the other relied on it. The man took his time, first removing his close fitting t-shirt by crossed arms pulled up and raised high above his head, stretching up as he did so. Miguel found himself studying the chest, pale, more hair than his own and bigger, more flesh. Next, slowly undoing the button and zip of his jeans, using thumbs tucked into waistband to push down both denim and briefs while kicking off shoes. Bending, he untangled his legs from the last of his clothing and standing, threw it all casually into the back corner. He turned to look at Alvarez and caught him out.

Miguel was staring at his prick hanging below the slight paunch. 'Not so long,' he found himself thinking, 'but quite thick'. He let out a tiny groan at how he knew it would stretch him wide. Coming to himself, Miguel stepped back slamming into glass looking up in horror.

Nikoli gave him a smug smile then climbed up onto his bunk lying on his back, hands behind his head. Torchlight, summoned by the noise, could see nothing except still bodies and moved on uncaring if some inmate couldn't find rest in sleep.

Miguel didn't know what to do. He was bursting for a piss but that meant moving closer to that man and he did not want to be watched. "Go to bed, Mikhail, get some sleep." Then Nikoli turned onto his side away from the cell.

Alvarez looked him daggers. 'Why,' he thought, 'you reckon I'm going to need it?' But said nothing. He really needed to piss. Damn it! He swiftly moved to the toilet nervously undoing his pants. Come on. Come-on! Relief! But he heard the man turning over. Nervously looking over his shoulder he lost his aim. Damn, all over the place. A laugh, "Don't expect me to clean it up." Miguel just sagged. Finished he looked for something to mop up with. "Beside the toilet."

Crouching down he found the cleaning rags then stopped. Rebellious he thought, 'don't fuckin' give me orders I ain't no prag!' But decided to clean up, anything that would waste time. A torched shinned in again stilling him like an animal caught in headlights then unconcerned moved on. He was shaking.

Having cleaned up, he stood thinking furiously. Nikoli had turned away once more seemingly preparing to go to sleep. Tie him up till morning. The rags in his hand useless, he cast around but could see nothing of use in this foreign cell. His searching would undoubtedly alert the other man. Pulling at his hair, God he was tired. Tense but his body now craved sleep. Fuck.

Lying down tentively on the bunk fully clothed, he couldn't relax. That was a given, this wasn't a relaxing atmosphere. No movement from above, just deep breathing. Was the bastard really asleep already or just pretending? He got up again and carefully peered at the older man. Good, it looked as if he'd gone to sleep. Was he really going to do nothing, leave him alone? But this was his chance! Maybe it didn't get him going when it would be so easy. Maybe the danger of being discovered at any minute was what did it for him.

But the attacks had been planned and planned well. Or maybe he needed a spectator. Or maybe...this was all part of the same plan? Owed a Hack? Which one? The one that suggested putting him in here? Alvarez hadn't known him. It made sense. Or maybe...? Too many questions theories. 'Face it hermano, you're fucked'.

Rubbing a hand across his stomach he knew he needed sleep, he had been surviving on very little. He carefully laid back down staring at the bunk above him. He tried to get his body to relax, it did somewhat, but his mind was in turmoil. Too many questions, too many theories. After the last encounter, assault he amended, he had felt so bereft at his response, the fact that not only had his physical self responded to the hands upon him, but he himself had 'enjoyed' the incident.

That he hadn't cared if anyone knew or could have seen him taken in such away later sickened him. He wasn't someone's bitch, a plaything to be pulled in on a string. He became so angry at himself, frustrated. So sure who his repeated attackers were, Keller and Beecher. He'd begun to lay plans drawing O'Riely in. It was going to be hard to get one without the other.

Beecher his main target had the best protection. A mad dangerous fucker who was in love with him and obviously would do anything, even watch him fuck another man to keep him happy. But then one spoken word at breakfast, the mispronunciation of his name and it all changed, all his certainty fled. Ryan had confirmed it this morning before the lunch he never ate.

He'd not really believed, it had sounded like bullshit, just an attempt by some one to bolster their reputation but it had also made him think and that one moment when Ryan had touched him, flirting in his usual charming annoying manner, knowing it would go no further, but then had hastily backed off. Not from any rebuke from Alvarez but from something behind him in the corridor.

So he'd had to rethink his plans. The intents and results the same but a change in targets. Still, Keller would be tough and if Beecher got in the way, so be it. He had always felt a bit sorry for the man for all he had gone through but only a bit. He had no time for people who let themselves be victims but that had changed. Beecher had changed. Nearly had as bad a reputation for unstable actions as himself. And it had changed for himself too!

Again the self-loathing made his stomach rebel feeling sick. It had also been revealed that Beecher knew nothing of Keller's activities in this. If told would he help Miguel with his revenge? Or knowing Keller so well, what he was capable off and still think of no one else, just add it to the list of things they were attempting to sort out? He also knew now why Ryan had been reluctant to become involved.

So if the Russian felt he could easily appease O'Riely over involving his younger brother, Ryan had obviously been playing both sides of this drama and thrown his lot in with the other man. After all, as long as Alvarez kept the small trickle of pharmacy drugs coming in, what was it to Ryan O'Riely if his partner got his ass seen to every so often?

And now he was here, locked in the same pod as the man responsible for that 'seeing to his ass'! It was obvious now how he could plan so well with the assitence of a Hack. How had he managed that? Still, Hacks were human after all and as corruptible as the rest.

Miguel yawned and found he was fighting to keep his eyes open but could he dare go to sleep? Slowly, carefully he left his bunk, well his for the night at least, surely tomorrow he would be moved, and stood searching the gloom for any indication the occupant of the top bunk was faining sleep. He had not moved seemingly, the same deep breathing. 'Nothing to disturb his sleep' Miguel thought enviously.

About to get under the thin bed covering, he realised he couldn't sleep in his clothes and shoes. He had no more to change into. Damn it, he didn't want to take anything off! Biting at a nail he studied the sleeping man. He must not be intending anything in here, maybe due to their whereabouts being known. All he had to do was scream and the Hacks would come running.

He sat slowly and removed his shoes, still reluctant then in a quick movement stripped down to his boxers and climbed very carefully under the blanket. Still he lay there, hand on stomach, gazing up at the bunk above, worrying at his nails.

==000==

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

Miguel was dreaming. One of those dreams that left his body reacting against his will. He could feel those fingertips caressing that same place on his jaw just below his left ear, tracing the line of his bone. This is how it always began, then a breath and that same gentle kiss. He would turn his head on the pillow to allow greater access, stretching his neck, longing for the fingers to move on, to explore.

He would moan, "Si," and, as the fingers travelled downwards to follow collar bone to the centre of his chest, "Por favor, quien? Who?" Never a reply just those hands playing, pressing across his torso. They seemed fascinated by his muscles, outlining, inspecting, caressing. Palm circling on his belly making him shudder as the hand pressed under the waistband of his boxershorts to tease at the top of his cock.

As he began to stir, he would place his own hand above the visitor forcing it lower onto his prick, lifting his knees, pushing into the bed with feet and shoulders, forcing his hips up, pushing forwards into that hand wanting to be grasped hard. But this time his hand wouldn't move. In his dream he tried again but couldn't raise it from besides his head. Pulling, he realised in his dream that this time it was tied!

He awoke, hadn't realised he'd managed to fall asleep. He moved. Shit he was tied! Wrists strapped to the uprights of the bunk, it took but a moment to slam back into reality. He froze rigid, his first impulse to fight held in check by the hand pressing his belly, the fingers on his cock. With horror his eyes turned to find those of Nikoli smiling down at him. "So, my Mikhail, you awaken."

He could do nothing but stare. All he knew were those glinting eyes, the pounding of his heart and the heat of the hand managing to pin him to the bunk with almost no effort. His short hair was gently grasped and, as the hand left his belly to gently run up to his jaw the same place as in his dreams, he felt his hips lift as if to follow. Nikoli's hot mouth clamped onto his own and he was treated to one of those punishing kisses, long and breathless as his tongue played with Miguel's lips, dipping in, circling, thrusting. Miguel had forgotten to breathe. Now he felt like he was drowning.

He finally began to fight, his legs moving but brought up short as his ankles reached the end of their tethers. He began to buck, feeling he would pass out when he was released to lie panting, his whole body heaving as he dragged in deep, shuddering breaths.

Nikoli sat back on his heals watching, his head following eyes as he took in all of the man prone in front of him from his shorts with the slight telltale tenting, up the smooth muscled heaving torso and back to that face. The face he had seen for the first time only a few weeks ago and had decided held everything he wanted, craved for.

Alvarez' breathing calmed and he pulled at the bindings at his wrists, the tethers on his feet. "You fucking bastard. Let me loose! Untie me!" A slight laugh the only response. "Come on man. Enough! Untie me NOW!" He wasn't sure if he was pleading or furious.

"Do you truly believe I should?" He placed a hand on the side of Miguel's head, beginning to play with his hair.

Jerking his head away, "Yes," through clenched teeth. "Untie me!"

Pulling gently at the short dark locks. "But Mikhail? Do you truly believe I would?"

God, why had he fallen asleep? No, he didn't believe he would be loosed. Nikoli had got him, got him good with time to play! Miguel strained against the bindings trying to see over the bastard's head to the glass. Where was a Hack when you needed one? Always appearing at the worst possible moment now there was no movement beyond the pod, he could see no torch light of one doing the rounds. He had no idea what time it was, how long till 'dawn'. Darkness, but it was always dark here. No lightening at the windows just darkness then stark 'daylight'.

He collapsed back to the bunk, there was nothing he could do. This man would be able to do anything he wanted and Miguel was powerless! The only options he had were to keep struggling, his wrists and ankles were already sore or he could just give in, concede defeat and pray it would be over soon. He couldn't fight anymore.

All his strength left him with the certainty that the ass raking he had always managed to avoid was about to happen. He just went still. Let this bastard do as he would. He'd not get any resistance from him. No response either! Alvarez determined he would not allow his body to overrule his mind this time. Nikoli would get nothing from him.

Wait. Yell! He would yell loud and long. Get the Hacks to come bursting in. Drawing a breath, a hand clamped over his mouth. Tutting, "Do I have to gag you now?" Alvarez knew he would do it. "Don't spoil this for me. No blindfold as I want to see your eyes as you come for me. To kiss those lips. I do not want anything in my way!"

Miguel looked up at him, at a complete loss, he just looked. Seeming satisfied, the Russian leant forwards removing his hand to place a soft kiss on his lips, his chin, then jaw line, taking time over his favourite place where hard jaw gave way to softness, tracing kisses into the flesh under the bone. Continuing down Miguel's neck and along his collarbone, gently sucking up skin, giving brief bites then caresses with tongue before leaving marks. Hands moved on his chest to play, tug and tease his nipples. They were still sore from the attention they had received on the last encounter and Miguel could not hold in an agonised moan as first one then the other was rebitten and slavered by a hot tongue.

He turned his head trying to force his face into the thin pillow. He wanted to muffle the noise he made as he realised it had been due to pleasure that he hissed as his left nipple was lovingly sucked, kissed then tugged by teeth. Nikoli's hands were constantly moving as mirror images over his muscled belly, over hips to work their way up his sides into the centre of his torso, then once more to descend over his prominent abs then down over belly to hips.

The mouth finally surrendered the nipple and Miguel's chest rose up distraught at the loss only to excitedly sigh as his right one was ravished. Fuck, he was responding once more, already he could not help it! His body wanted to abandon itself to the sensations and he found he had no will left not to let it. His last rebellious action was to try to imagine the mouth, the hands belonged to his sweet Maritza then maybe he could justify feeling this way but the touch of beard pressing over his grazed nipple making him jerk upwards followed by his suddenly attentive prick blew the image away.

He was licked from chin to under his upper lip where the tongue dwelled toying with his teeth. Miguel opened his mouth, pulling back his head, trying to suck in that tongue and giving meek invitation. In less time than it took his racing heart to beat once, he found his mouth being fucked by that tongue. Lips clamped to his own, clashing tongues in a battle for supremacy, fighting, pushing at each other. This time Miguel couldn't care less if he ever breathed again.

Suddenly nothing. No mouth, no hands "No..." this time body straining against bindings begging not to be left. Eyes searching for Nikoli, he was found stood by the bunk staring down, eyes boring into his own. "Nikoli?" his voice hoarse, small and tentative. Had he really called out for him? Yes, and he wanted him! Knew it now, all pretence gone, all former inhibitions given up. He wanted this man to touch him, feel him, fuck him. Oh shit. He wanted this man to fuck him! But could say no more.

Then a hand pressing down on his stomach, the other holding onto the waistband of his now bulging boxers. They were violently pulled upwards, a ripping noise but they remained cutting into his flesh, pulling hips up. A relax then another violent jerk and the seams gave and he was released. Still bound hand and foot, that final violent undressing released him from all doubt and any lingering guilt.

He could convince himself he had no choice at all, that he was taken by this man. Any response his body gave, that he gave was not of his consent because this man had taken control complete and utter. Nothing else mattered now but what this man in total control of him wanted, desired, would do to him and he found himself glad. He had no responsibility, no choice, he had no control. He was released!

As hands circled around his hips, diving under his body to massage away the marks the elastic had made, Miguel threw his head back mumbling a litany of words in a language Nikoli did not understand but knew the meaning of.

Nikoli climbed onto the bunk, knelling between the legs of the prone man. Leaning on hands either side of Miguel's chest, he stared down into the brown eyes shinning brightly in the darkened room. "Oh, my Mikhail," there were no complaints about the sounding of his name.

Alvarez just stared back up, licking lips on an open begging mouth. He watched as the face, the mouth, descended so slowly towards him. The kiss when it came was long and gentle, glorious. Miguel's lips were already swollen and extremely sensitive as he enjoyed the sensation of whiskers scratching, catching on the tender skin. All the while Nikoli's rock hard cock caught the head of his own rapidly stiffening one. Miguel closed his bent legs together against the Russian's, wanting to pull him down onto himself but the bindings prevented him success.

The kiss ended and Nikoli smiled down at him practically purring with pleasure. He then moved backwards on the bunk kissing down the centre of the younger man's body. Over chest, navel, following the line of hair on the belly then quick light pecks along the length of Alvarez's now throbbing length. He licked around the head in one movement then, taking the very tip into his mouth, his tongue very gently, very slowly ran back and forth across the slit.

Miguel surged upwards trying to force his way in but was defeated as Nikoli knelt back grinning. "No. Please," Miguel begged.

"Please what, my Mikhail?"

A pause, head straining forwards then quietly as if not really daring to speak, "Please. Don't stop!" a sob on the word.

Nikoli laughed delightedly and surged forwards, body pressed along Miguel's, arms stretched out holding onto his hands, letting his whole weight lie upon the slighter figure beneath him. Again Miguel tried to move his legs, he wanted to wrap around this man. He spoke as his face was covered in light kisses and licks, quietly and still hesitant "D..Do something nice for me?"

Nikoli pulled arms down to support himself as he moved up from Alvarez forcing his groin and hard cock to press in tighter. He actually wriggled, his hips moving cock on cock. "But surely is this not something nice?" He laughed, dipping to kiss the jaw just below Miguel's left ear. He loved that spot, the hardness contrasting with the softness next to it. Eyes dancing, he gazed into those wide, gloriously rich brown yearning ones. Miguel bit his lower lip unsure how this man above him was going to react.

"Ask me."

Miguel let it out in a rush, "Untie me. Please…..Please untie me." Plaintive. He was willing to beg if need be. He already was.

Nikoli pretended to consider, then, "No. I do not think so." He saw anguish in Miguel's eyes. "Not just yet," laughingly. Instead he began to grind rather than wiggle, the pressure on Miguel intense.

He couldn't tell if the noises he made were moans or sobs. He didn't care as he heard the answering grown of approval that sounded wrenched from Nikoli's depths. Cock grinding into cock, balls painfully clashing, Miguel could feel that 'bubbling' pressure building and knew he would cum soon, too soon. Then again, sudden movement and the body left him, moving back on his heals. Alvarez roared "NO," a hand clamping over his mouth before the whole of Em City could hear him.

"Mikhail. Hush. Quietly." But he was laughing in delight. Oh how his Mikhail wanted this! Pulling his hand away, he trailed just one finger down the centre of his Mikhail. His Mikhail who was frantically thrusting forwards off the bunk, staring at him with a face full of disbelief but he was blessedly silent.

Nikoli would not have this night stopped by Hacks rushing in to tear him away from this pleasure. He had waited too long to see that yearning in Miguel's eyes. He had used the blindfold because he could not stand the thought of seeing the hatred he would have received those first times.

That's way he had not fully taken Alvarez, had had to use extreme self control not to plunge into his prize and lose the chance to see what he now saw in those eyes, the wanting, needing of him. Totally centred on him at this moment, Miguel knew of nothing but him. The finger, joined by the rest, closed around the root of Miguel's shaft pressing in, released, pressed again then they were drawn along the length to hold just underneath the swollen head and then very, very gently pulled.

Miguel's head threw back, his whole body straining up on shoulders and feet. He looked ready to explode but Nikoli was not ready yet, would not allow it. Both hands gripped Alvarez's hips then moved around to hold him by the buttocks. Head bent, lips poised to suck him in and torchlight found them. The beam ran from the tied hands down Alvarez to rest on Nikoli's face, mouth open to surround the now still and frightened man's prick.

Miguel stared at the Hack. He wanted to scream out forbidding him to stop them. Instead he turned his face from the light and sobbed out, his bottom lip quivering. He was going to cry! Minutes ago, hours? He had searched for that light, had wanted to scream for it and some Hack to come and save him. Now he could die from it! He would kill for it to be gone!

Nikoli calmly continued to knell over Alvarez, hands trapped under the trembling body and stared at the spectator. Unlike Miguel he knew the Hack's name. The torch was lowered, illuminating the man, an amused look on his face. He tapped very quietly on the glass, shook his finger and moved his head in a tut tutting naughty gesture and, laughing to himself, moved away.

All Miguel knew was the rapid breathes on his engorged, leaking and trembling cock, then moist warmth as he was taken whole, deep into Nikoli's mouth and throat. The shuddering sobs racking his body in despair, quietening his prick, changed to the agony of pleasure, cock flooding once more as lips closed in and pulled at him. Nikoli sucked him from root to tip, then staying there, tongue pressed in at that, oh, so, sensitive spot just behind the head. Alvarez left the bunk once more, his buttocks held up in a hard grasp as Nikoli took him in whole once again.

That was it, no more, he could take no more, could not stop himself from cumming. He let go, spurting hard as Nikoli drew back slightly preferring not to choke. Miguel collapsed back down but the other was not finished, knew Miguel had more and took him in deep again causing Miguel to spurt for a second time, his body now slick with sweat, his head thrown back panting. Nikoli stripped him clean as he withdrew, swallowed the salty, slightly bitter fluid, the taste of his man. He considered him as such now, he was certain of it and knelt back, hands by Miguel's feet.

Alvarez, slowly returning from the heights, relaxed and gazed up at the Russian. He saw lust and that smile of his which no longer appeared conceited or condescending but now appeared one of satisfaction and joy. Alvarez fooled himself to believe he could see no more, he wasn't ready yet for that.

Nikoli slowly moved his hands, gently running up the moist body to lie on him once more. Miguel felt his hardened, thick and pulsing cock press into his tightly stretched belly and wanted to enfold this man in his arms, wanted to wrap his legs high and tight around him.

At the thought his legs moved, they were free! Immediately he drew them up, crossed over Nikoli's buttocks. He tensed and pulled him even closer. Nikoli kissed him, tender then deep, long and devouring. Miguel wondered at this man's control, not only of him but also of himself. He was still so hard, pushing against him slowly, beginning to move. Hands still bound, Alvarez used his legs, pulling Nikoli, trying to set a quicker harsher rhythm. Nikoli once more leant up looking down into those beautiful eyes he loved, so deep, a rich brown and dry humped onto that so taut, but still too thin, belly.

He stopped and Miguel's eyes focused on his seeing the question in them. He answered with his soul. "Si. Por favor, Nikoli, please," he begged, he actually begged for it. "Fuck me?" He had meant to demand but could he yet? Would Nikoli allow that? A sigh so deep turning to a moan of lust and wanting as Nikoli moved back causing Miguel's heart to miss a beat. Surely he wasn't going to refuse? Not this time? He had to come this time, surly?

Miguel no longer worried that he was wanting this, that he wanted his attacker to fuck him. No longer cared about all those thoughts of submission and control, of dominance and 'prags'. He wanted this, needed this and did not give a fuck as to why.

Extending a hand, Nikoli searched the edge of the bunk above him, becoming frantic until he'd found the lube he'd left ready.

Alvarez found himself trembling with excitement and with also a little trepidation. Kneeling, still staring into Miguel's eyes, Nikoli undid the tube and pressed out some lube onto, Miguel was amazed to see, shaking fingers. He watched fascinated but also frightened as the Russian spread the lubricating gel onto his cock then slowly, oh so slowly, as if savouring every moment put fingers to Alvarez's asshole. He stretched his legs high and apart not willing to give any impediment.

Miguel caught at his bottom lip. He wanted this while trying to ignore the fluttering in his belly, the uncertainty. He was sure it would hurt but didn't care anymore as he began to breathe rapidly, nervous and excited. Nikoli, smiling down at him, placed a gelled finger on his rim and began to rub gently.

Miguel stopped breathing and closed his eyes, gasping as the fingertip entered him. This he remembered but knew that this time he would have it all. He tensed up briefly, thought, 'No, not this time please', but Nikoli gave him time to adjust and, as he relaxed, pushed in further to the joint then the second, halting again, waiting for Miguel's body to give permission.

Remembering to breathe Alvarez looked to see those grey eyes watching him. He nodded silently, begging for more. Then the finger was in full. Miguel sucked in his breath, hips rising, "Please," little more than a whisper. Nikoli was giving him time, too much time. He circled the finger, retreating then pushing gently. Miguel could not keep still and he squirmed as his cock began to stir slowly. He was shocked that it reacted at all so soon but all of his reactions were amazing to him.

Another finger entered, waited then the remembered scissoring, circling, stretching, as he was prepared. Nikoli's careful fingers began to pick up pace, he could not wait much longer. He needed to know what this young man felt like on the inside. He withdrew the digits and, once more lifting Miguel's hips, lined himself up. Looking to Miguel's face as if for permission, he saw want and pushed forwards. Resistance then heat, hot tight heat and a body responding, pushing onto him. Slight tensing then….

Plunged in. Pain, sharp hot pain. Miguel cried out wanting to shout 'No it's a mistake, Stop!' But Nikoli stilled giving him the time he needed and the pain receded leaving Alvarez with a tight stretched feeling.

"Mikhail," Nikoli spoke softly. It almost sounded lovingly. "I would not hurt you."

Miguel looked at him and believed. He strained at the bindings on his wrists, wanting to hold this man's face, draw it down for a kiss. Instead he lifted his legs higher and wrapped them around Nikoli's back. The man surged forwards, no more acceptance needed and impaled himself to his limit laying out fully on the gasping man beneath him.

Slowly he began to retreat, plunge, draw back, surge forwards into Miguel, open mouth on open mouth. Miguel matched the rhythm, his head moving to catch that mouth with his lips, suck at it, lick then full on contact. The kiss grew deeper and stronger as Nikoli was egged on by the vice like grip on his back and he began a more pounding rhythm. He reared up, pulled back and thrust in so deep. He had waited for so long, had to control himself for far too long but not anymore. Harder, faster he began a punishing tempo, ramming into Miguel forgetting his words.

Miguel was gasping; he could not believe this cock in his ass. It felt so big and thick as if he was going to split apart. Yes, it was hurting him but not in the way he had expected. He was relishing the friction, the pain, more a discomfort, and ecstasy filling him up. He was already so fiercely hard, Nikoli's slight paunch rubbing and pressing against him. He thought he would cum again already so soon, too soon but the rhythm changed. Nikoli's cheek rubbing on his, hands behind his shoulders pulling him, the prick almost leaving him then being filled up again, smooth agonising slow, wonderful sliding in. Nikoli's grunts by his ears, whiskers rubbing him, then quick short sharp thrusts then nothing.

The cock still hard inside of him up to its limit and Nikoli was looking at him so closely "Mikhail?" asked with a strained husk.

"Don't stop. Oh fuck, Nikoli. Don't stop. Want it!" gasped out, forcing his hips upwards, moving trying to get that wonderful prick to keep moving, "Please," he cried "Fuck me!"

The man responded deep and harsh. His weight on Miguel, his hands followed up the slope of his arms. At last, wrists free, Alvarez immediately wrapped his arms around the larger man's back and he clung desperately, his face buried in between neck and shoulder, kissing, biting, mouth covering the jugular, tongue pressed to skin feeling the rapid pulse.

Nikoli, supporting them both, withdrew almost leaving him then, with a roar, plunged deep once more then back, rocking on Miguel's body. Deep one last time to freeze, then shudder as he came deep within.

Miguel answered arching backwards, the feel of that warm liquid inside calling forth his own. Nikoli lifted to stare into Miguel's orgasmic gaze. Together, jerks, spasms as they both emptied all they had, gave it to each other. They stayed tense, rigid then relaxed, still together, breath loud, chests heaving, this time with Nikoli's face buried in Miguel's neck.

Stillness, then Miguel's legs slid from the body above him, his arms still holding on lightly, hands spread wide upon the sweat soaked back.

Nikoli slid from Miguel with a sigh full of contentment and passion that he had never truly felt before.

Alvarez wanted to cry out at the loss, dared to grasp Nikoli's hair and pull his head back to search his eyes. He found he needed reassurance that he had been worth all the trouble.

The Russian's eyes slowly focused and that smile returned to his lips. "So, Mikhail?" he breathed, "Are you, 'My' Mikhail? Are you mine?"

Miguel answered, totally reversing the desion he had made just before last entering the Emerald City, that had involved this man's death. "No," he said and with a violent motion, completely taking Nikoli off balance, he forced the older man over, onto his back. Pinning the man down, Miguel raised himself up to stare into the Russian's wide, astonished and slightly nervous eyes.

"No," he repeated, involving himself in this man's life. "But I'll be your, Miguel." And with that, he kissed him. Hard.

==000==

end

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A/N. I hope you have enjoyed this fic. And if you have, why not drop me a line? I still have an affection for these, my first stories. Cheers!


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